


Carry On

by emptypockets



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, i tried to balance it out, ish, this is sad but a group hug happens, what’s the tag for an alien absolutely losing their shit, wow okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptypockets/pseuds/emptypockets
Summary: The first time her fist comes down on the console, nothing budges except for the bones in her hand, so she brings both down at the same time. Hard.Gallifrey is gone. Again.- or -The Doctor finally breaks, and the fam helps put her back together.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 226





	Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> first off, thank you to Lady for requesting I write this because I’ve spent ALL day on it, finished it just in time to post before I leave for work. I wanted to post it outside of my oneshot series for some reason, so here you go. I cried like 3 times but it’s sweet at the end, I promise.

She’s always been good at running. 

Maybe not the fastest in the race back at the academy, but never more than a few steps behind first place. When she and her mates are running from danger, she always finds herself pulling at the front of the line effortlessly. Even in her old body, all bones, no muscle - it came as naturally as breathing. 

The Doctor’s also always been good at running away. 

She could have a Dalek at her heels or gunfire behind her back, and it wouldn’t feel like running away because there’s always something to run _to_. The TARDIS, a broom closet around the corner, a table to hide under, a hand to grab - there’s always something in front of her. Something in reach, something obtainable.

And now, there’s nothing. 

Ever since she saw the burning remains of Gallifrey and the Master planted a seed of doubt in her mind, the Doctor’s been running away. There’s a small, furious part of herself that’s tempted to scour any and every corner of the universe for answers - for _him_ if that’s the only key to finding them, but there’s a much, _much_ bigger part of her that’s too eaten away to care. 

So she runs from the answers, and runs from the questions. They haven’t been as persistent lately though, she realizes - in fact, it’s been a while. It would be nice to think that that means the Doctor’s suddenly a master of disguise, but she knows better. Then again, she definitely used to be at least a little better at hiding her emotions. 

Yaz, Ryan and Graham are everything but thick. They’ve taken the backseat finally, _thankfully_ , because she can’t keep reusing the same excuses and deflections forever, and just can’t seem to come up with any new ones. 

She’s been still for too long. The Doctor shoves numb hands into her coat pockets and begins to pace an antsy circle around the console, desperate for something to be broken so she can fix it. Not a spec of dust on the console, levers shift smoothly and buttons have just the perfect amount of resistance to be satisfying. The exitonic circuitry behind every roundel in the console room has been inspected, and approved, of course. She overhauls every 500 years like she’s supposed to. 

The Doctor stops in her tracks, looks around in the beginnings of an unjustified panic when she realizes she’s done _everything._ 3000 years and she’s never been caught up on maintenance, and it’s an unnerving feeling, having nothing to do. 

She vibrates with the urge to run, to get far, far away, but she’s smacked straight into a wall. 

The hands in her pockets curl into agitated fists and when her darting gaze finds the custard cream pedal, she disregards it. 

“What do I do?” She asks the air, her own voice so weak and foreign that she long to hide from it. 

_Keep going,_ is the response that flickers at the front of her mind, and she isn’t sure if it came from the TARDIS or some optimistic corner of her own subconscious. 

“I can’t keep going.” She argues, maybe to herself. Wouldn’t be new. “I… I can't keep doing this.” 

The Doctor draws her hands from her pockets, shakes them out because she can’t feel them anymore. On a hitching inhale they move to fist in her hair, and it takes everything she doesn’t have not to buckle in agony. “I can’t keep doing this.” 

She says it as a realization, dawning on her like a ton of bricks. 

The Doctor rakes her nails across her scalp as if she can dig the solution out of her head. “ _I don’t know what to do_.”

Her breaths are coming quick and shallow, sweat beads on the back of her neck. She’s too warm, every nerve set alight and making her skin itch, but digging at her arms with aggressive fingertips provides no relief. 

There are two fists in her chest, squeezing the life out of her hearts with a mighty grip. 

She needs to fix something. 

The Doctor spins around to face the console and firey eyes target the custard cream dispensers. She raises one knee high and slams her boot down on the pedal. 

A piece of metal flies across the room, screws scatter at her feet, and she kicks out again onto the dispenser itself. The biscuit crumbles under her boot, it’s holder bends, but doesn’t break. Furious with it’s resiliency, the Doctor kicks again, _hard,_ a teary scream ripping itself from her throat and falling back on no ears but her own. 

The pieces fall, and flee in every direction. The TARDIS groans in disapproval. 

The first time her fist comes down on the console, nothing budges except for the bones in her hand, so she brings both down at the same time. Hard. 

_Gallifrey is gone._

A piece of machinery snaps beneath her knuckles, and it feels _so_ good. 

_Again._

Blood starts to trickle over her fingers, but she’s too immersed in the sparks flying before her vision to care. She strikes out again with the fury and anguish of someone who’s seen far too much. Lived _far too long._

_I can never go home._

A tear splashes onto the back of her hand, slides down her knuckles and turns a watery red. 

_Again._

She rears her hand back, curled tight even as it screams in protest, and her fist flies forward with every ounce of strength she can summon from where it lays near-extinct. 

But just before she can hear that satisfying _pop_ of something else breaking at her will, someone grabs her arm and holds it securely. 

“Doctor!” It’s Ryan, holding her wrist in a vice grip that she can’t shake out of no matter how much she tries. 

The Doctor’s left hand forms a fist instead and she readies her strike, eyes trained solely on her target and not willing to budge. Her hearts are still pounding painfully, crying out in anguish inside her chest and she _hates_ it. 

“Doctor, stop!” Ryan’s quick, snagging her other wrist and bringing both of them behind her back. When she continues to strain against his hold, like a predator denied its prey, he hooks his arms under hers and all but drags her away from the console. 

Startled by the involuntarily movement the Doctor lunges from his grasp easily, staggering into the console but not continuing her assault. Palms braced on the edge, slightly hunched, she stops - processes. 

“Doc, what the hell?” 

She cringes, tightens her grip on the console with little care for deep stabs of pain that shoot through her hands. 

Yaz is suddenly at the corner of her field of view, hovering warily for barely a moment before she’s taking up all of the Doctor’s personal space all at once. A soft hand on her arm, definitely intended to soothe, but serving the opposite. 

The Doctor flies away from her touch, hands recoiled defensively as she takes a few distancing steps back. Her arms fold protectively, tightly over her chest as she tries to catch her breath, blinks unsteadily, stares blankly the mess she’s made. The TARDIS hums lowly in the back of her mind, disgruntled and definitely taking things a _bit_ too personally. She doesn’t spare it any thought. 

Yaz is closer than the others but they’re all keeping themselves at an uncertain distance, eyes wide and concerned, questioning, fearful, and something else she can’t pinpoint, all coming at her like daggers. 

“Hey.” Yaz looks particularly worried, voice steady and controlled as if she’s speaking to a wounded animal. She might as well be. “Take a deep breath.” 

The Doctor’s hands start to shake and she tucks them under her armpits, suppressing a shudder. 

She can’t draw in a full breath. She’s wound too tight, anxiety sitting heavy in her chest like she’s walking through endless dark, blind and completely lost. She can’t find the light, and she’s run out of places to look. 

“Doc, what’s going on with you?” There's an edge of impatience to Graham’s voice but it’s different from usual. Less irritated, more pleading. 

She shakes her head, incapable of looking any of them in the eye, or perhaps just too cowardly. Their gazes burn, pierce straight through the barriers she’s failing to hold in place, and she wants to hide, but she can’t. 

The Doctor balls her left hand into a fist, doesn’t succeed when she attempts the same with her right but she tries to force it anyways. Doesn’t grimace, let up, or even really feel what would probably be very painful if she weren’t so...

She just wants to _stop._ Even just for a moment, but she can’t. Her burdens are too fast - they catch up too quick, piling heavier every time they reach her. 

The Doctor drops her hands and goes from dead stillness to everything but. Her movements are haphazard, out of order and hurried, scooping up every scattered piece of machinery littering the floor into tired arms. She dumps it all on the console, careless and with a loud bang that makes her flinch as she initiates it. 

“Doctor, please.” Ryan’s voice comes from somewhere behind her, but it sounds far away, out of reach, not worth paying any attention to. She drops down with a thud to sit cross legged in front of the tattered remains of the custard cream dispenser, and starts the process of righting her wrongs. It would be great if a wrench and a couple screws were applicable to less animate areas of her life. 

“You can’t just not say anything after we walk in on you throwin’ a tantrum.” Graham’s words have a bite that his tone doesn’t match. He’s being oddly gentle, and it makes her shrivel, hunch over to inspect her work with a closer eye so that she doesn’t have to listen. 

“We’re not leaving.” Yaz sounds closer than before. “Ignoring us isn’t gonna do any good this time.” 

Footsteps can be heard behind her back, growing closer at a tentative speed. 

“We’ve sat around long enough waiting for you to work through whatever’s going on by yourself, because that’s obviously what you wanted.” Yaz is only a couple steps behind her now and the Doctor can hear her heart beating quick, nervous and desperate. “But we care about you too much to keep that up. You’re not okay.” Her voice stutters at the end, caught in a flood of empathy. “Please, just tell us what’s wrong.” 

_I can’t_ . _I can’t._

She can’t tell them to leave so she tries to tone their presence out, focus solely on the mechanics beneath her trembling hands. Her right hand is basically useless, aching and held at an awkward angle, definitely broken in at least a couple places. She holds the wrench in her left grip instead, tightening a bolt as tight as it can possibly go. 

“Doctor, please.” 

Yaz is _right_ behind her now, and when a hand comes to rest on the Doctor’s shoulder she practically jumps out of her skin. 

The contact is unexpected, unwelcomed, immensely uncomfortable and the Doctor springs to her feet in a desperate need to escape it, scattering bits of the console in her uncoordinated hurry. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Yaz offers, hand held out steadyingly in the Doctor’s direction, like a peace offering. She just stares at it, panic settling deep into her bones once more. 

“Talk to us.” Graham’s practically begging, his voice _so sad._

She takes a step back, overwhelmed, feels herself bending, on the brink of breaking in two. 

“What happened?” Ryan longs to know, she can feel his need for clarity drifting through the air like dust particles, thick and copious enough that she could disturb it with her fingertips if she could move them. 

She can’t move at all now, actually. Her legs holding up her weight are nothing more than a concept, mindless and automatic. Breaths pick up speed in an attempt to catch up with two hearts that are absolutely racing. 

“Deep breath.” Yaz tries again, with a wise, knowing look in her eye. “Talk to us.” 

She _really doesn’t want to._

“You’ve got to let us in at some point.” Ryan prods. “You can’t go on like this.” 

_Oh, I know._

“Doctor.” Yaz pleads softly, and the Doctor takes a step back. 

“Say something.” 

“ _Talk to us.”_

The Doctor fists her left hand in her hair. 

“Doctor.” 

And snaps clean in half _._

“ _Gallifrey is gone._ ” 

The words escape on a choked sound that’s almost a cry, a hitching exhale as she _still_ struggles to come to terms with the world-shattering information. 

“Gallifrey is _gone._ ” 

Her world is crumbling and her knees are weak. The Doctor sags back against the console, buckling, curling in on herself as she sends the confession into the air and instead of floating away, it hangs. A storm cloud overhead, and it finally rains. 

“Your… your home?” The statement leaves her three companions flabbergasted, at a visible loss, but Yaz seems struck the most. 

“Gallifrey is gone,” The Doctor tumbles out, heaving in as deep a breath as she can. “For a _second time._ ” 

That one really seems to strike a chord, and rightfully so. She can’t believe it either. 

“What… how?” Graham stutters, rooted to the spot in secondhand despair. 

The Doctor shakes her head, roughly, vigorously, trying to clear a path through the clouds that close in on her relentlessly. “It burned once - a long time ago.” She doesn’t reveal that it was at her own hand, the first time. That’s a long story, one she buried deep a long time ago and expected to never resurface. A detail they don’t need to know, a detail she definitely doesn’t have the energy to unpack right now. “But I fixed it. I got them back. They were _safe._ ”

Yaz, Ryan and Graham maintain a respectful distance, giving her space to ride out the wave of debilitating grief - but they don’t stray far. Eyes fixed firmly on her, a disbelief and pain swirling behind them like children being told Santa isn’t real. 

“But the Master, he - ”

Her breath catches in her throat and she has to cut herself off. Her friends fill in the blanks, she doesn’t have to finish. 

They don’t know what to say, but their silence isn’t unwelcome. She’s not up for a Q&A. 

Tears cloud her vision and she can’t find the energy to hate herself for it, or try to cease the flow. The fam are still watching her, wordless, expecting more. They know there’s more. 

“There’s this…” The Doctor chokes out a chilling laugh, eyes red rimmed and stinging. She’s got the ball rolling now and for some reason, she can’t stop it. “There’s this part of me that - wants to be pleased, _relieved,_ even, and maybe a tiny part of me is.” 

The confession resonates, and she knows that if she lifts her head she’ll find three faces radiating confusion. She doesn’t expect them to understand, but she carries on. 

“Because the Time Lords…” A tired snarl twists her frown into a painting of betrayal. “Were _terrible_ people. They tortured me, you know. Trapped me in my own personal hell for billions of years for information. They were war hungry-” Her broken hand twitches, her slightly more abled one curls. “Cruel, _stupid, terrible people._ I’ve spent so much of my life hating them… hating everything they are. Hating what they tried to make of me.” 

This conversation was the last thing she wanted, but even with the telepathic waves of sympathy, sadness, secondhand grief absolutely _consuming her,_ she can’t stop. 

“But they-” She falters, curling her arms tight around her middle in attempt to soothe the emptiness, the _loneliness_ leaving her hollow, and shattered. She’s alone again. 

_She’s alone again._

“But they were your family.” Graham’s tender, understanding words cut through her remaining stiffness like a knife, and she feels herself absolutely crumble. 

Sorrow consumes the Doctor to the point where she can barely stand. Her shoulders are heaving with cries of grief that she tries to silence, tries to stifle, preserve at least a _tiny_ bit of dignity when she knows it’s already lost, but she only halfway succeeds. 

The tingling, firey sensation of her own skin making her adverse to touch melts away, and something in her body language must give this away because Yaz is at her side in the blink of an eye. Warm, strong, _alive_ arms circle her from her left, holding on for dear life. 

She can’t will her own arms into returning the embrace, glued to her sides as she squeezes herself tight, but she melts into Yaz’s side and _weeps._

She should feel embarrassed, she normally would, but she’s too empty. Too drained. 

The Doctor’s head drops onto Yaz’s shoulder as she cries, shoulders shaking with every hitch of her breath. Everything she’s been holding close to her chest, everything she’s bottled up inside and hidden from her friends’ beautiful naïveté is free now, still weighing heavy on her chest, but now a burden out in the open for others to shoulder. That’s not what she wanted, to put this weight on them, but now Graham and Ryan are at her right, arms coming around her in a position she’d find awkward on any other day. And she realizes, accepts, that they truly don’t mind.

So she cries, and allows herself to cry, allows the dam to break and the tears to flow endlessly. Allows her friends to hold her, keep her safe, and it feels silly, almost, as her thoughts knit back together into a light shade of coherence, but she doesn’t move. 

It’s impossible to feel entirely alone when you’ve got your three best mates hugging you all at once, and she sighs something deep and closer to relaxed than she’s experienced in months. Reveling in their closeness, listening to the melancholic thuds of their hearts as they sing an off-key melody of sorrow. Hurting on her behalf. 

“I’ve watched my home burn twice.” A broken whisper she’s trying so hard to come to terms with. 

“How does it feel?” Ryan asks solemnly, in a need to understand as much as he possibly can. 

The Doctor’s legs strain under the recognition of her sinking weight, and become entirely inoperable. She sags, allows her friends to easily, gently lower her to the ground, never letting go. Never letting up. 

She swallows thickly, draw one knee close to her chest and leans into it. “Like I’ve lived… _way too long._ ” 

She can practically hear three hearts break. Her own would too, if they weren’t already crushed. 

The Doctor drops her head to her chest and lets the grief wash over her, consume her, drag her into its merciless clutches. She surrenders. 

Yaz’s arms shift to hold her closer, and the Doctor feels a tender hand on her head shifting it so that she’s tucked under Yaz’s chin. Cradled, protected, and all she manages to feel is relief. 

“Doc, I know it’s not the same.” Graham begins, his voice coming from very close to her ear. “But just know… just don’t _forget_ how much we care about you.” 

“You’re _our_ family.” Yaz whispers against the top of her head, warmth breaths ruffling the Doctor’s hair. “And we’re yours, even if it’s not the same.” 

But it’s better, in a strange way. Doesn’t completely fill the void, doesn’t completely knit her broken hearts back together, but the Doctor knows these three are more of a family to her than her own ever was. 

“We’re right here, and we, personally, are not going anywhere.” Yaz assures her. “No matter how moody you get.” 

She finds it in herself to laugh at that, weak and quiet, but it’s genuine. 

“We’ve got you.” Ryan says warmly, giving her shoulder a light, affectionate shake to mark his words. “It’s gonna be alright.” 

Somehow, despite everything, she believes him. 

Fatigue sinks so deeply into her bones that she can’t find the will, or want, to move from her family’s hold, and they don’t seem in a hurry to break apart either. 

They sit there, in a comfortable, packed silence, for some allotted amount of time. The Doctor doesn’t keep count of the seconds, just revels in them. 

She draws in a full, deep, satisfying breath, and lets it out steadily. 

“When’s the last time you ate something?” Ryan asks. “You haven’t joined us for breakfast in ages.” 

She forgot about food, actually. She thought the weakness in her limbs was sheer despair. 

“Or slept?” Yaz adds. “You look exhausted.” 

She doesn’t know the answer to that either. 

“Well, we’ve got our night mapped out for us, then.” Graham says, his suddenly cheery tone a sharp contrast to the heaviness of the atmosphere, but welcomed. He’s the first to break the group hug, standing slowly and stretching out stiff legs. “Sandwiches?” 

“Say yes, it’s all he knows how to make.” Ryan whispers, still latched onto her side. 

The Doctor smiles a small, impossibly tired smile, and nods. “Thank you, Graham.” 

Pleased, and visibly relieved by her response, Graham hurries up the stairs and into the corridor with a speed she’s never seen on him. 

“I’ll put the kettle on, then.” Ryan draws away, braces his hands on his knees and stands, patting the Doctor on the shoulder with absentminded affection before leaving the room. 

The Doctor is left with Yaz, who hasn’t loosened her hold in the slightest, and she doesn’t mind at all. 

Those calm, sturdy arms shift just a bit, just enough for the Doctor to lift her head and dig her palms into her eyes. She sniffs, groans, and tries to clear the rest of the fog from her head. 

There’s no use, she decides and lets her hands fall into her lap. Yaz, with movements so very gentle, reaches for the Doctor’s wrist to lift her hand for inspection. 

“Really did a number on yourself.” She tuts, words laced with that deep, lingering heartache. “I’ll get you some ice.” 

She moves to stand but the Doctor snatches her hand, grabbing her attention and holding her in place for just a moment. Their eyes meet, Yaz’s wide and beseeching, the Doctor’s soft and ancient. 

“Thank you.” She squeezes her hand, even though it hurts, because she means it, and she needs Yaz to know. 

Yaz’s lips form a sad smile, her face softens into something so homely, so soothing, that the Doctor nearly crumbles all over again. She returns the squeeze of her hand mindfully, carefully.

The weight on the Doctor’s chest is bearable now, the tight coil of agony in her stomach has lightened into something tolerable. Something she can work with. 

For the first time in a while, she feels like she can carry on. 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always appreciated, thanks so much for reading!


End file.
